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A few things for themselves,
Convolvulus and coral,
Buzzards and live-moss,
Tiestas from the keys,
A few things for themselves,
Florida, venereal soil,
Disclose to the lover.

The dreadful sundry of this world,
The Cuban, Polodowsky,
The Mexican women,
The ***** undertaker
Killing the time between corpses
Fishing for crayfish...
****** of boorish births,

Swiftly in the nights,
In the porches of Key West,
Behind the bougainvilleas,
After the guitar is asleep,
Lasciviously as the wind,
You come tormenting,
Insatiable,

When you might sit,
A scholar of darkness,
Sequestered over the sea,
Wearing a clear tiara
Of red and blue and red,
Sparkling, solitary, still,
In the high sea-shadow.

Donna, donna, dark,
Stooping in indigo gown
And cloudy constellations,
Conceal yourself or disclose
Fewest things to the lover--
A hand that bears a thick-leaved fruit,
A pungent bloom against your shade.
Emma Oct 2018
As I walk through your museum,
I admire all the art.
I admire the postcards and love notes
carefully stuck the home of
your beloved.

As I walk through your museum,
I wonder what time She comes home.
I see how everything in her existence
has been tainted by you,
as I quietly reassure myself it won't be soon.

As I walk through your museum,
I see you turn to face me;
and I feel my heart flutter so hard
that it must have flown out of my chest.
It doesn't matter, I tell myself,
He only wants you.

As I walk through your museum,
into your venereal grasp,
I feel your certain hands
pull away at the little modesty which remained.
You do it as surely as
a bee follows honey.

As I walk through your museum,
into that place where everything changed,
I can't help but see how
lovingly you gaze upon Her.
It's in all the frames affectionally placed
on the walls of the place, She calls home.

As I walk through your museum,
and I feel your hands begin to empty me
like a pumpkin on hollows eve,
I see Her. I see everything I knew I would see.
I see the  pain at what you are doing
and I know that I have made a girl like me.

As I walk through your museum
towards the door with a choir of screams and tears following,
I remember how it felt to be a girl like me, on my first time.
And I smile,
peaceful with the knowledge that
I am not the only girl like me.
Paul Rousseau Feb 2016
Larry, the man who terraformed Mars, has a scar over his left eye.
Maggie, his younger sister, could not make up her mind.
Her brother was a Star Man. She was left behind.
Maggie swam in the ocean
Larry paid a fine.

Maggie liked tequila
Larry was back on Earth.
He liked snorting space rocks
By the basement furnace hearth.

Larry got a parking ticket
Maggie passed out in the sand
She did not feel a single thing
When she was ****** there by a man.

The baby was coming in April and
Maggie went to the clinic
Larry thought about Venereal tides
While he was out having a picnic.

Larry, the man who terraformed Mars, has a scar over his left eye.
Maggie, his younger sister, could not make up her mind.
Her brother was a Star Man. She was left behind.
Maggie swam in the ocean
Larry paid a fine.

Maggie is now a single mother
In the house with a furnace hearth.

Larry never came back down
The last time he left Earth.
David Flemister May 2016
scabby matted hairy patch
sour incandescent colour
crabby splattered scary ******
our adolescent mother

sores are sordid, sold and scorched
broken out in carmine stain
***** implores on my front porch
smokin' bouts of welcome pain

beaten, broken, ****** and used
spanking, pulling, thrusting, please
me, i want to be abused
**** me and fulfill my needs
Frank Ruland Jul 2015
Oh Lord, here we go again:
some creeper's stalking me from his lonely dungeon;
having more than a look at my Facebook
Trolling and scrolling, you got me LOL'ing
No life of your own, so you're all up in mine
It's all kinda sad, yet I'm laughing and rolling
******* be slipping, like Amanda Bynes
Twitter, FB, HP, Instagram - do it for the Vine
I'm moving forward, but you're falling behind
Got Google Alerts on me for your benefit,
so you're the first to know when I take a ****
At least buy me dinner before you hop on my ****
Can't let sleeping dogs lie, like Michael Vick
Bro, your ****'s blowing up my phone -
open my Gmail and my inbox is blown
Talk **** about me and my girl, but you ain't got your own
**** started on HP: makes it poetic,
plus your pity party makes you pathetic
Wait - oh, **** - you're ******* poe-thetic;
more useless than a ****** prosthetic
******* all night before you catch some ZZZ's,
then dream about ***** - Lord, help him, please
You're a loser, a nobody, a venereal disease
Just like Paris Hilton - ID'd as ******
Live in your mom's basement while I sign a lease
to live in an apartment, cause nothing is free
Except these laughs that you're giving me
Talk about my rhymes, but what do you do?
Fling **** at people, like a baboon
We're not supposed to feed animals at the zoo,
but here we are, paying attention to you
Dude, you're more deplorable than Svengali
You make me cringe worse than 2012's Benghazi
I don't see you dropping rhymes like this
Open your mouth, kid - I've gotta ****
You're used to the taste of human waste;
your whole people probably **** in your face
You're a mistake I should erase;
like Michael Jackson, you're a ******* disgrace
Like Kanye and Taylor, you're out of place
You're so obsessed with me, I'm amazed
Hating on my face these last few days,
because yours leaves people afraid
Put a mask on, like you do online
One day of the year, you'll be fine
So look. I could go on, but I'm on vacation
While I'm drink 45's, you'll be masturbatin'
While I'm loving life, you'll still be hatin'
I'll put my pics on Facebook, for you to Like
I believe this is where I drop the mic
Lol, you're a ******* loser, dude.

http://hellopoetry.com/frank-ruland-jr/
Martin Narrod Jan 2018
What a blessing to realize
That the gynecologist in my dream
Is not real, that his diagnosis about my ****** are not real

And that my ****** is not real,
And really was just bits of subconscious particles, cerebral filaments shuffling up
My cortex and flowing through my pathways

To my post-memory. And that her reports
About my venereal disease was only a screenshot I saw two days ago while perusing
The internet; I opened a new browser and still was without a ******. And my ex-girlfriend

Curled like lumpy milk in the backseat of the car I don’t own was also without venereal disease, but that she wasn’t also driving this
Dream that I was driving. This dream built of syntax and broken promises.

Though I wish the publisher that put my book into print had been real. That the newspaper with its four-star review had been real. That the gorgeous woman at the party who assumed I was some famous poet and lead my hand up her *****-less dress had too been real,

But was in fact an explosion of Azeroth, as was her twin succubus kissing my neck passionately when my wife approached from behind. And her lips fell off of me like autumn leaves onto. Pond, and her twin shriveled into a scrap of paper,

And the wind took them out into the sky,
Far above my eyes. Her taste dissolving heavily Into my mouth with only an inky taste of her
Dulciloquent compliments to remember her

And the way she tasted like my 20-something
Debaucheries. I’m already forgetting them, and forgetting what it felt like to have men only Want me for the ****** I’m already
Forgetting that I had. I’ve already forgot their Names and the words they used to address me.

I’m already minutes away from the days of that,
That inky dream where they undressed me
Sticking their tongues into my throat. And I had four throats and twelve Eyes. I was an idiot to believe that I was the only one in the world

Worth never forgetting. Which for that moment
Was worth having venereal diseases and doctors
Calling me during parties on weekends. It was worth all of it, and the disgraces, and now

Now it has all vanished, along with all of them in it, and this short blurb of words is all of their existence that remains
Devon Baker Apr 2013
Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic *******
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the ******* kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream
I sing along to drown out the voices
My sad playlist and I sit
listless
and I stubbornly ignore myself
If you can't say anything nice
then take your fingernails
and curl off my skin
starting at the genitals
effectively preparing me for taxidermy
Off I search
Alone is notsafe
Alone is smiling crookedly
from empty bones and a few yellow teeth
My naked pieces scattered carnage
on the dank floor of my cell
covered in hotel carpet
So ******
it almost gets me off
Reminds me of venereal hookers
and air freshener
which always results in tainted pleasure
So I put on my dark circles and bags under my eyes
to fit in
and I leave the thousand unlit cells
some empty
some containing rancid bits of pancreas
and I keep climbing blindly
I lost an eye in 14D
I humorlessly squished the other as I bent to pick it up
Yanehs MagTa Nov 2012
My name is Aziz,
I am the one 2be up in your buz-nees.
what a pleasure it must be for you to meet me
i greet thee!
so treasure this
to your measure.
I am the one,
who knows the one,
who is not the one to be re-done.
she is this girl
stuck in a whirl
who thinks in a swirl,
that girl
my friend, who was born totally bent!
Tis me she kissed and i couldn't resist
for i am Aziz,
one ******* enough to be all up in her buz-nees.

My name is Aziz
I'm like a venereal disease
not your average menstrual bleed.
One taste of me and you'll be screaming 'Yes please!'
I'll bite into your neck like a sucker with a sore leg
as you beg for more at my door,
te amour.

My name is Aziz
I'm like a contagious disease
not your average ******.
******* puurrlezz!!
I kiss girls in my car and watch them shake it like it's hot. All over the parking lot
dot dot dot

My name is Aziz
grand master of saying thank you and please with easy e. ****! she was not meant for me...what did she mean when she leaned in
Aziz! Aziz! Aziz!
yes? Thank you?? Please *******, FREEZE!!

my name is Aziz
I've got her heart on my sleeve, so I'll make like a tree and leave this to be, as it's not meant for me.
She likes sea shells on the sea shore unfortunately not more, what a bore. I don't care that she's not sorry, but why do i feel so sore.

My name is Aziz
i miss, Miss.
I miss her in the morning i miss her on the phone i miss  her cause she ran all the way home.

My name is Aziz
i think i know that lady!
she'd always call me baby
she hasn't rung me lately.
She no longer goes to the beef she doesn't eat
Do you know why maybe..
Is it cause she hates meat??
Whereas i love eeet.

My name is Aziz can i talk to you please?
I wanna say all these things
like ring a ling ling
where did she get that bling
My ******* knee hurts cause it's in a sling.
I wish i was a Saudi king
if i was would you tell me why you wear that ring??

My name is Aziz
can i see you please
or are you no longer for lease... Is it because you think I'm a sleeze?
I'll beg on my knee and say please (-) the thank you
i promise not to prank you.
There's all these things i wanna say.
I understand that you may be gay,
i don't need a lay.
I just need to speak to you Shenay nay.

Your name Aziz.
wala, you said you love me, wala, i said i love you too. I'm sorry i wasn't meant for you.
See, it's nearly a full moon and I'm still so blue...
I really wanna see you.
But I'm too stubborn to actually talk to you.
Even though our love was enough i'm not sorry i played bluff.
but now, this all feels too, much
Don't you see, i was in a rush.
I should have hit you over the head with your crutch.
But instead i kissed you, your lips, they were so lush.
They even made me blush.
You weren't my crush, but now I'm crushed. Because of us my brain's gone to mush.
I wish i was still your baby and we could pretend that it's all groovey, maybe even watch a movie.
But in the perfect world my frnd I'd be stryt and u, u'd be my perfect m8.
A story of love I suppose.
Wrote this for ***** and giggles initially but they've open wounds so deep all of which i thought were meek even non existing but it was only my internal emotions resisting.
This must be my favourite one that I've ever done, thus far.
Omar Kawash Apr 2016
I need a vacation.

Maybe a trip to Italy.

I gotta revitalize.

Maybe, Pompeii.

I am feeling starved of my vim and vigor.
My words are lukewarm.

There is only one option:
rekindling my virility.

I could vivify myself vicariously:
the sensuality of the city's verve,
all the daily livings of people,
venerated in an intense blaze;
might make me vivacious again.

Input daily routine.
Output socially valued norms.

My vivid, vermillion passion
has been layered with ashes.

I am desperate for veracity.
Did my igneous, poetic life temper
to an obsidian verse?

The beat in my heart
has felt industrialized,
monotonous,
a steady assembly line of chaste gray;
a vexing variance of my vitals.
Revive me: my virtuosity
will ventilate me with
venereal voraciousness.

What is left to me,
a choice of perspective:
a plunge in to the devouring,
a dive in to the radiant;
both, a swim through a viscous sea of wildfire
in Mount Vesuvius.
Koumeterium  Messolonghi  - CHAPTER I

After sleeping for a thousand years the current of the major solar star fell on my face. I slept, not smiling at the crowds that buried me smearing my only bones. The search for that shouting made me celebrate the porous and fuzzy bodies that fell on my scratchy fingers, delighting my humble tributes to the beetles that accompanied me to direct my gaze to the sepulchral vaults near me. Some were filled with an augural awakening semblance; like the one that begins today, with the ominous words that moved from today, to the beat of my gaunt jaws. Among tombstones of dinosaur floral emeralds, in an autumn blue glade, birds were rubbing themselves on the edges of the sculpted stones. Meanwhile, I felt the mustard leaves riding on the dried carnation leaves. She looked at them dressed in white, even the slab of Drestnia, which closed her senses, remained behind bars with her hands crossed, as if evolving with her body to attend a new Era of geography and different technology. In her chest the living vertiginous wind would run, until the corporeal appearance in the light of the Koumeterium of Mesolongui; that hosted more than a thousand years ago, Etrestles de Kalavrita.

This immense palace and flat place, is nothing more than an asylum, where the worst plague originated that began the death of Lucifer's sentinels, which he dropped on this place with their beautiful golden cloaks; whose satagenesis the burning ground would rise to the ten fossilized cemeteries, under that of Mesolongui. I walked slowly with my old body dragging me, by the tenth floor, and that the adolescent pointed stones would break my nails; as if they were claws of a mammal trapped by the lava of a volcano. In each advance, the armor of my last patriotic fight would awaken in me, and that of its moving to observe how the parents worked through the conglomerate of castes, fighting in subterranean inclemencies.

Tease them when they wake up...:

Etrestles ...: "Which of all the columns erected is capable of opening all the columns built in the pavilion of these masses without shapes or colors ..., only the diaphragm of the vitalizing Aeolian lung of my reverie, is who I think I would...? To all those who are on the run and trapped under the soil of Mesolongui, I bring you good news ... not in a thousand years has her beautiful body been damaged. Since my birth in Ayia Lavra, he saw me being buried for the ninth time, in the fossilized Ninth Cemetery. Who’s Archpriest with his holy oils slipped across my partition, pretending to be a water dance engendered at the bottom of the Ionic. Between the arcades of the temple my mother Vitabion ran through the columns; to the outside to bathe in the sacra-vertebral water of my baptisms past. They were my past lives providing with the Auriga their entrusted previous lives. And you Mother ..., one day you tested the weight of my recycling ...?! There you, comrades of wars, of sacrosanct pilgrimages, of the enormous steamy baths of civilization in the Olympic and Equestrian fields. To you, who live here, just like my death in my last life at the hands of a Spartan soldier? You, blood of my blood, I feel your need speak within me...? And in the last Drestnia, which for its sixth uprising from here from Mesolonghi, between bars sealed your tomb to indeterminate the Hellenic situation. I have had to drink from the thorn resin, to speak to you from here, with my bony hands to touch the others just as yours are...Drestnia, from my still preserved rib, I will be reborn by appeasing the domain of collective thought and Willful, preventing your freedom. From my rib you will return to your present life, from whose cold, the flower seeds skeletonized the perimeter of your life ..., Etrestles went with all of them towards the interior of the Koumeterium of Mesolongui, towards about eighteen hundred meters in a zenith direction”

They went to constitute the Council of the Necro-Messolonghi, to define the minutes. --- While the music with its winds adorned the arrival ---. Just at the moment, the Auriga arrived with his blacksmiths; they came to free Drestnia, with his multconsciousness. What happiness for Etrestles, he ran through the underground pavilions, until the oldest Koumeterium, the first fossilized. Where thousands of Years, with numerous species now extinct, Etréstles came to give them the good news loudly!  Meanwhile, the Council attacked the promulgation of sprinkling the divine vine of the Dodecanese fields, in the seedling of Markos Botsaris.

Judge ...: With my limp, I have to advocate the reintegration of the outstanding Markos Botsaris, who once freed us from the Turkish occupation!

Ashurbanipal ...: My Syrian reign, full of dynamism, will place on its jambs the powerful image of the South-West Wind, in honor of its victorious exit in Kalidona.

Etrestles was just walking Drestnia to the Council, and thousands of harmoniums undermined doubts of the lordship that invoked the hero. Everyone stands up, the Council at their octagonal table, with their assistants, leaving the vine glasses empty to welcome the last surviving female of the first Koumeterium of Mesolongui.

The harmoniums, like Apollonian rubies, enlarged the dimensions of the cave vaults. --- They sit down and the music ends ---. Drestnia with some leaves on her shoulders adorned the new stage, where she would go to sit for the new becoming.

Asurbanipal ...: To you Oh gifts, of the Universe, you are well received at this Council, where one day they brought me to praise my contributions from the entrance of Humanity! But the topic for today will be awaiting the arrival of Markos Botsaris , just like you who have reached this end, thanks to the generous Auriga.

Auriga ...: The ***** of the wax of Orion; Eternal fuel, gave strength to my peers steeds, to rise above distant lands, to arrive with my Blacksmiths to unsolder the bars of Drestnia.

Blacksmith...: Our eyes were closed every hundred kilometers, but Eurydice with her calendar, made the aphelion bring us closer to this feat.

Echoes ...: Dust ..., Myth ..., Dream ..., Illusion ..., they have swirled the gallop of millennia, dressing the Squall in gray...! What dark words illuminate the hopes, only down here, well known is that there is much to do, since there is more activity than on the surface...!

Judge ...: Etrestles, Drestnia ..., past, present, or future will speak of you. You Drestnia ...!, What a long dream ..., you challenged your gothic vision, so as not to move your neck towards your neighbors , beings embedded in the first fossilized Koumeterium.

Vitabión ...: Mesolongui honors all the cemeteries in the world, where their loved ones go to see them. But they do not know that there is more dynamic life here than in their own world.

Menopausal Woman ...: My husband cries on my slab, because his infidelity caused a venereal disease in me, which today has eliminated me from his life. He cries and cries for my ****** descent, everything for being with another woman condemned me.

A curtain rises and Funebrio comes out; priest who concelebrates all recent deaths...

Funebrio ...: Woman when you cry my black clothes, black tears cry...! Your husband remains static, without movement, despite so many kilometers of his free will. Out of habit, the forbidden, the tempting is done. But the rebellious Mother Nature pours out her punishments on us.

Staktos ...: Friends who kiss each other, where have you deposited the ideations...? Or do you give to scatter everywhere the osculation that satisfies other mouths.

Etrestles ...: I ask you all to prepare yourself to do your job well. So too, with your prayers, I wish you to hold my mischievous heart at this hour, for the arrival of Drestnia.
The Judge asked to adjourn the meeting, so that the recess could later discuss the strategies for future deaths.

Gravedigger ...: Mr. Judge in the step of the eastern sector, they have buried an architect. We could ask for your cooperation, for the Botsaris monument.

Judge ...: All in good time. Way to go, does anyone want something to narrow down...? --- Drestnia raised her hand and asked...:

Drestnia ...: With Etrestles in the last minutes of our lives, who will pass away once said monument is finished, where will our souls who here in Mesolongui remain temporarily ...?

Judge ...: The insane generals of wars will lead to
Etrestles to the field of Lepanto, because there are stubborn souls that defy the defeated souls ..., and as for you, the benevolent Auriga will take your soul of colors of the sunset, to divide the megatons of the Romantics, who together with Ghiberti, on some trunks of beautiful minerals, they will anchor their best verses and hyperesthetic longings to overshadow their collective suicides.

At the end of the session, the attendees leave, and Drestnia and Etrestles go to the dock of the celestial napa that with its golden shine awaited them, to set sail for Tangier and Morocco. In his ships were the concurrent, Etrestles led his ribs wife towards a navigation that guided the sound of the oars that were the femurs of a Diplodocus.

Drestnia ...: When I am next to the liquid lake lord, I see the need for me to grieve ..., I have a sorrow that I want to be part of you.

Etrestles ...: In Kalavrita, when I was an infant for the fifth time, my father would read me tender stories, and I would ask him if they were from a famous writer, to which he replied that they were from an ordinary man.
The stories were about some spells about pain, one very mundane connected with something transcendent. An example is the Toothache Spell ...: “It dates back a thousand years to. c., the Assyrians attributed toothache to beginning in the Universe and ending with a toothache...:

After Anu had created the sky,
and that heaven had created earth,
and that the earth had created the rivers,
and that the rivers had created the canals,
and that the canals had created the quagmire,
and that the quagmire had created the worm,
the Worm came crying to Shamash,
shedding his tears before Ea ...:
"What are you going to give me so I can drink?
"I'll give you a dried fig and an apricot"
“What good will a dried fig and an apricot do me?
Lift me up, and between my teeth and gums allow me to reside ...”

For having said this, Oh Worm, may Ea punish you with the power of his hand!

Treatment ...: You have to mix second grade beer ..., and oil; you have to recite the spell on the medicine three times and then apply it to the tooth.

You see my Drestnia, you will see that it is possible that I have a spell just like my father gave me, and I can heal you of that pain. For you, that day will come when we will part, and the spell will be to bear the pain that will be beneficial for both of us. My rib is my sorrow, hence my last hope with smelly acid gases, I erased the invitality of you behind the bars.
Koumeterium  Messolonghi  - Chapter I
Dr Peter Lim Sep 2015
'LOVE IS BLIND'?

'Love is blind'?
what nonsense!
then how come we have
'love at first sight'?
Shakespeare in one sentence
had hoodwinked us since 1616
true, he wrote great drama and poetry
but we must note
he didn't study medicine
nor opthalmology
and mind you
we are living in the 21st century
with all the science and technology
surely it would be the greatest folly
to just quote the bard's cliche blindly

the eyes have it
ask the ophthalmologist

without the eyes
the lover would not see
beauty
and as a corollary
how could you love somebody
if in the first instance
you were blind id est--you couldn't see!

careful, so careful we must all be
to differentiate between reality
and the ranting of silly poetry
if this myth were to perpetuate nilly-*****
mankind would look really silly
that would look good not even to the slightest degree

and one more thing
please bear with me
and this is the bard's secret history

he had chancre--venereal ulcer
for which he received treatment
could he have written 'Love is blind'
being affected by that odious malady?

London's brothels he did visit frequently
when he was away from Stratford-upon-Avon
he drank a lot too--there is ample evidence
he also had anasarca (oh mercy!)
result of mercury-related membranous nephropathy
( we shall not defile him further-
but his alopecia was due to treatment of mercury
for his syphilis---what a medical litany!)

in conclusion
we could somehow see
that England's greatest writer
was not as bright as he had been taken to be.
nil
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
upon the universal statement:
once upon a time...
and subsequently to end with a universal
statement: they lived happily ever after.

well poet ought to shatter the narrator,
he should never allow the narrator
a narrative so well consistent
as to remember a character's standstill
psychology from one writing session
to the next, in between living his very
eventful life (i don't know how irony
is noted, italics or en-dittoed?),
but moving words about is high treason
against materialism, encapsulated by
the merchants' motto: move a stone
make a penny, move a mountain,
make a fortune. so beautifying language
is so horrid? really? we are all going
to be satiated by a dull numbed expression
like adding numbers, while the birds sing?
poetry is just hushed opera, to appreciate
the birds, and on the odd chance,
a raised human verse sung;
so when i give you examples, i wonder,
will you agree or wilt beside me,
from the italicised introduction,
four examples to invoke particularity / chirality
rather than universalism / parallelism:
a. *breakfast at tiffany's (truman capote)

    'i am always drawn back to places where i have lived,
     the houses and their neighbourhoods.
    "african hut or whatever, i hope holly has, too.
b. the catcher in the rye (j. d. salinger)
     'if you really want to hear about it, the first thing
      you'll probably want to know is where i was born,
      and what my lousy childhood was like, and how
      my parents were occupied and all before they had me,
      and all that david copperfield kind of crap, but i don't
      feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.
     "don't ever tell anybody anything; if you do, you
       start missing everybody.
c. steppenwolf (hermann hesse)
     'this book contains the records left us by a man whom
      we called the steppenwolf, an expression he often used
      himself.
     "pablo was waiting for me, and mozart too.
d. don quixote (cervantes)
      'somewhere in la mancha, in a place whose name
       i do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago,
       one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on
       a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing.
       "vale.
the ninth gate is truly a film about bibliophiles,
and the alley where i popped open a beer bottle
while two lovers kissed waiting for me to
craft a scene as if a forbidden love was revealed to me,
and indeed it was: no dread of jealousy at not
being coupled, but all the same, hatred
invokes apathy, it cannot claim platonic pathologies
of lovers (first), poets (second) and sibyls / prophets
(third)... hatred is tiresome, it walks no thirteenth mile
the same day, and when hatred exposes apathy
it is assured: apathy breeds no pathology,
love on the other hand breeds a lacerated maggot pit
of pathology; whereas atheism just breeds factual
reevaluation and constant reinterpretation
without proofs, theism plagiarises, and wants
to prove... really really prove... and get *******,
or at least roman catholic castrato songs to boot...
pure narration? just now, you spotted it?
poetic digression is the only way a poet can
become akin to a narrator in the medium of fiction,
poets digress... fictional narrators are all bound
to the titanic... on course for unchangeable history...
poets digress to create their own narrative.
so to begin with (need to ***, need to ***, will
i survive the wording to the end?)...
the generic and easily analogous once upon
a time
is akin to an open field... many directions,
much open space, many congregational opportunities...
in the end few books of fiction are finished,
too much inanimate details and symbols,
not enough images, books without pictures
are stupid, as alice would have said...
slowly but surely the readers drop off,
a bound book with a thread of silk that acts
as a bookmark end halfway through the thickening:
undercooked pasta, raw tomatoes...
but the process from the beginning to the end
makes the acre of gold-simmering wheat
turn into a pinhead...
writers forget the element they're writing
parallel to is claustrophobia, i know,
how can a phobia become elemental?
people get killed, that's the foremost proof for me...
narration in grand novels is a bit like
a growing bulging claustrophobia...
the acre of a wheat field becomes a box-room...
and as this happens the paradox emerges:
we all wish to embark upon a and they
lived happily ever after
, but we're given
a once upon a time, in reality we begin
with they lived happily once,
and end with it was once the case...
i figured i did the worded arithmetic better
in my head a few minutes prior...
but then i became bothered by julien torma's
words. who was julien torma,
he was a would-be-poet on the fringes of the Dada
movement: Dada being like black panthers
and big lebowski movements against the war in
vietnam, although more to do with world war i,
let me cite him just so you get a feel...
lyricism: a venereal disease.
             a poet who is preoccupied with
poetry is a shopkeeper.

on the second point... i think he's more of an antique
dealer, but never mind that,
i get the point, and i don't mind what he minds,
i find any if all poetic endeavours a futility,
but i rather write a poem to be discrete and actually
read fully / contently / due course to express
the way a poem is written with ensō fluid
spontaneity: than oblige myself to write a novel:
better a stack of stones dismantled from a pyramid
shape than a mountain never climbed;
as i told you, poets can't narrate, they can digress,
and poets aren't like writers of fiction,
they can't latch themselves to the narrowing
from acre of field to a box, or a room,
they can't grasp claustrophobia as the drive
for that perfected the end, it's impossible...
they're always shrapnel narrators, a free moment,
a guess; as the paradox of writing dramas,
they're written because they're intended
for what the populace expresses: an uneventful
life to the limit of the total of all predictability:
death - dare not tire of boredom, keep it
like a constantly stretching rubber band, and then
death comes... SNAP! cushion cosy on that morphine
are we?
Poeta de Cabra Jul 2014
A busy night last night, heaven knows
Must have had more ****** than a rose
Love the money, of that there's no doubt
But I'm really ******, completely worn out

It was my choice I know, to become a *****
But not sure how much longer I can do it for
***** breath , fat old farts grunting and groaning
Me, pretending I'm enjoying it with fake moaning

Was only sixteen when I first started in the game
Head, hand jobs or ******* to me is all the same
Happy to try any game the customer wants to play
As long as they have money and are willing to pay

I caught the ***** once from some ***** old ******
Another time I did catch the dreaded venereal disease
Other than that I have kept a nice clean and healthy box
Guess condoms and good luck have kept away the pox

As i get older though, I think more about settling down
Maybe one day I'll be able to rope in some rich old clown
Don't want to live forever in the fast lane running wild
I would even like to give birth to my own sweet child

But now it is day time and I really must get some rest
Because again tonight I'll be out doing what I do best
I'll be ******* policemen, doctors, lawyers and scholars
And again I'll come home with another fist full of dollars
Owen Phillips Jan 2011
Left to remain
Anything to quell fear
Seized opportunity
Sold soul to fear
Parallel vision
Past and present collide
Time recalled of time without fear
Haunting specter
Wild cry
Wild sound of devotion
Old quest uncovered from the dust
Old wilderness restoring to old glory

Firing from old expended
Reservoirs transferring water
Into coffee grinders, to dust
Chained in a crab *** at the bottom of the sea
Pelted with repeated blasts of particles of light
Until the matter is compressed into a singularity
Or breaches on the matter anyway besides
Unleashing rather than a sinkhole trap,
A flash flood over everything
Coating vision with a venereal sheen
Inundated in a fluid silk connective fabric bond
Until the matter reaches
Into pockets of relief
And miracles of situational
Restorative advance
Particulate regenerative
Relationship encounters
Debris from space accumulating
Hoping in some arcane sense
To be reformed together into beasts anew
While similarly fossils of
An ancient swarm of locusts
Are unearthed
They’re met with magnets
Positioned counter to the flow of electricity
This array is aligned to the magnetosphere
Of that old planet
Where I have lived before and left kinsmen behind to grow a colony of their own
But my own magnetism is calibrated today
To the wildly different magnetosphere of my latest home



To put it mildly, out of wild instinct, exiled from an old society
Of innocence/intelligence
A pretense over bell curve
Environment restrictive of
Fraternization *******

On a day too perfect for itself
The stage-play left upon my table
All the actors meandering about
Chance encounters replaying dramas.
Ocho the Owl Oct 2013
I've survived heartbreak
in all of its many, many forms

I've survived being stranded out in the middle of nowhere
with no way of getting back to civilization whilst visiting a distant country
I've survived seeing the true colors of my so called "close friends"
when I needed them the most
I've survived growing up in an alcoholic family
I've survived religion
I've survived low points in my life
where suicide looked to be the only answer
I've survived countless pregnancy scares,
venereal disease scares,
and psychotic girlfriends
of all shapes & sizes

AND HERE I AM
STILL STANDING
STILL SWINGING

My tombstone will read as follows...
CAME: SCARED SHITLESS
LEFT: GIGGLING UNCONTROLLABLY
I hear…I will…I do not understand, if you are speaking through me won’t you please make your presence known. If not, kindly show me to the door. Jolly rancher, jolly Rodger…Every rose has it’s burden, a shifting stone takes in all it has coming. A stitch to throw in a ditch saves just three under a dozen. Come in and care. Come in and make yourself at home. Come in here and cough up a phlegm-ball. Rest your weary head on my tombstone.

There’s a reason for all the things I do. Do you want to know what it is? One thing, and ONLY one thing: Pepto-Bismol. **** gets things done. That’s my excuse, pardon me, sir, if you don’t get it, you won’t get it you won’t NEVER *** it down in yer soul where it needs to be.

Never so young as you were that day. What a show. What a show. Pretty maids all in a row, fit to a one with tight trusses emblazoned. BUTNER BUTNER BUTNER! Three cheers for Butner. One big long cheer with corresponding slutty ***** dancing routine thrown in for free. From your friends in Butner.

They ate that right up. Didn’t even have to spoon feed ‘em. They’z musta bin reeeel hungery. Sure thought mine was special.

And it was.

Take my pick, that’s the schtick. Maybe the doll in the unwashed dreadlocks? Maybe the gal with the go-hero pout. Maybe the one with the sad dropping eyelids? Maybe the ***** with the genital itch. Maybe the ***** with the venereal sore. Maybe the **** with the cellulite ****.

Or maybe the tiny, mousy mouse of a sprite, never had love look her in the eye, that stuff only makes a man wonder why. Hair shorn short and shut out the lights or you will never see that incredible aura and glow she dwells in like a bubble. She’s the one to choose. She’s the one, you can’t lose, you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain, how can I make it more plain? You’re gonna get wet if it rains and I haven’t got time for the pain, Strange Woman. MY woman.

Make some plans for a one night stand I’m a dope smokin’ man and I sure get around and my life revolves around Strange Strange Women. Strange customs. Strange habits. Strange ideas of just exactly how incredibly Strange they actually are. I’ve got mine, now you go get yours. We’re hookin’ up at the dance.

Dilly dance, dance of the week, American Bandstand dance and you didn’t like the words but it’s got a good beat so you give it an 85. You could dance to it.

Such was my hope. Twas to be my destiny, if luck stayed tucked in my pocket I was fittin’ to be gittin’ my share o’ what I got comin’…

…and I did.
aar505n Jan 2015
Unprovide my mind, please.
Lest I care about matters of the flesh.
Listen to my expostulation,
as I am prostrate bowed.
I do not want exoneration,
for lust stains will remain
but I can no longer stand
the tenacity of it.
For it no longer can command
in guaranteeing its veracity.
So I long for someone to fetch
this excellent wretch from me.
The inner dome of Heaven has fallen
and with it, this wicked thing's ethereal appearence.
Revealing the venereal act planned from the begining.
I run far and hide from Daystar.
No longer enamored with its lustful glamour.
I wish for its allure to be nullified
and so it may unprovide my mind.
Aaron LaLux Aug 2018
At a loss for what it costs for these dreams,
my boss is a bot I mean a mean machine,
I mean that it seems,
they talk but I do not know what they mean,

I mean I got a feeling,
that sometimes things are not what they seem,
but I mean,
how can things not not be what they seem,

& it seems that we’re sleep walking in a day dream,
or more of a nightmare where they don’t fight fair when they feign,
& we scream but can’t wake up our minds or make up the time as it speeds,
on an assembly line butchering swine while dining on ham & cheese,

& I want to defy all of these lies,
but I don't have the time nor the energy,
so I write the signs of our times line after line,
instead of going head to head or eye to eye with the enemy,

trying to write it all out even though still I don't know what's gotten into me,

& still it’s obnoxious to to think,
that they’ve lost their conscience to memes & their consciousness to drinks,
unconscious to all things exotic while being white washed up in mainstreams,
lost in constant nonsense on narcotics it’s all gone in a smoky noxious steam,

while toxically ****** overgrown weeds sown from GMO seeds,
create these monsters that feign for meaningless things,
like rings that bling & the profits that conquest brings,
& they won’t stop this nonsense until they pop like a viral venereal disease,

I mean I’m honest I mean I mean what I say & I say what I mean,
& honestly I say they’ll **** the whole cow just for the cream,
I say they're an obese disease concealed between two legs in designer jeans,
as they march in unison an army of ants that only answer to the Queen Bee,

Martyrs for Dollars with corporate sponsors,
broadcast worldwide on cable TV,
I mean why do you think the youngest billionaire in history,
is a degenerate Jenner by the name of Kylie,
it's not a coincidence that she profits from cosmetics,
I mean cosmetics cause cancer which benefits the pharmaceutical industry,
& I don't mean that personally I mean I'm not sure what's gotten into me,
or why I'm speaking so recklessly without offering any apologies,
like a Kamikaze **** drunk on whisky,
standing in the street like “c’mon cop man frisk me!”,
or a Stalin on Ritalin or better yet a Britney with bad kidneys,
still collecting those royalty checks from Daddy Walt Disney,
& it’s all moving so fast I can’t get a grip or a grasp,
& not only am I disoriented but I’m also starting to get dizzy,

I mean,
it seems things can not not be all that they seem,

I mean,
it seems these words can not read all that they mean,

I mean,
it seems we sold out our dreams when we bought into these screens,

I mean,
it seems I don’t know if I really know if I know what I say or say what I mean,

I mean,
it's confusing to try & make sense of this nonsense & I'm sick of explaining,
I mean it’s absolutely obscene what these monsters will do for the cream,
sacrifice the whole Holy Cow all in the name of the American Dream,

& I'm at a loss for what it costs for these dreams,
my boss is a bot I mean a mean machine,
I mean that it seems,
they talk but I do not know what they mean,

I mean I got a feeling,
that sometimes things are not what they seem,
but I mean,
how can things not not be what they seem...

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

from The Holy Trilogy Vol.2: Mandalas
available worldwide 8/8/18
Evan Hayes Jan 2015
A mad man with a heart of gold
Passion burns hotter than coal
But his moral's are a tad bit cold
I'm a prime source material
So he got a bit venereal
He's still kicking but he's getting old
Morrow
Good morrow

Morning
I'm still mourning
Go on with your passing
Remarks to keep them laughing
I can tell
How much you mean to them

Green tea
Misogyny
Irresponsibility
I don't know What it means to me

Baby
You're going crazy
Trying to keep me up
Trying to shut me out
Baby I swear
It's safe in my lair
And we don't have to worry
about the bears
Ray Aug 2014
It all starts with an Idea,
an idea like a distant thunderstorm
like cold rain on your skin
and then, let it seep in
and run wild through your blood
like a venereal disease
and let it enter your brain
and let it grow in the darkness like moss.

And there you will find a Dream,
absurd and absolute,
a dream impossible to chase,
and so keep quiet.
Let it grow inside you
like a little parasite
until it is all there is.

And then, let go.
Published: Efiction India
I miss your touch
The taste of your skin
Sweet like chamomile
and honey
Dancing on my tongue
Like venereal ballet dancers

It's only you that can light this fire,
Carnal desire,
Lay your head back,
Let me take you higher
And know that I'm not a liar
When I say your eyes drip liquid lapis
On a world that's only known
Black and white
erica court Jun 2015
you've a childish touch
a         stroke of              imagination
                         your words will not make
              sense to me but i will overlook
         my suspicions
                                      your death is not
                                      real
                  because you were never real
       baby, you were never alive
           but i still see you everywhere
                 laughing and drinking with me
        every shot of whiskey i took
                    alone
send me love from wherever
           from whatever ghost you came from
           to haunt this broken mind

you've childish blood in you
my dear, i've lost my venereal scent
and it's witless of me to be so cruel
and deny your existence
L A Lamb Sep 2014
History doesn’t repeat, it reproduces,

It ***** us well

into the darkest hour; we hold it so holy as

it wholly condenses, contracts, cracks, grasps and

Moans. It’s a venereal haunting,

ghosts of a ruthless world that doesn’t give

a **** and only cares about ******* **** up and *******

to be the fittest, survival of the wittiest.



You all want to reproduce your kind

but with the reproduction of your kin

your kind comes out sludge—

the soggy excuse of an abandoned mind

rotting away into “we’re not the first—

it’s always happened, all the time, is that a crime?”



Wreaking havoc amongst a species of your kind?

****! Me! Yes! It’s serious!

To trudge the earth for proof

that birth of war was something

of divine? Is it fine that people die

and never know of the privileged life—the life



We ******* live, ******* for Capitalism

But still getting ****** the same—

Like parents—if you won’t ******* take the time

to ******* notice what’s there and what’s right

what’s not and what is, sometimes—

what is sometimes more than one or two times;



The world is your baby, you can’t just decide

When to care and when to pretend you do

It’s true, getting ******, we all have—just a few

everyone is getting ****** in the entire ******* world

***** ******* with their ******* only want control

Hypocritical ***** in the government—they’re the ones creating ******

We the people, America the ******, swallowing what’s ******* from stores

Money’s flashy in that aspect it can buy whatever fetish

It can satisfy and pleasure

It can torture it can ruin it

It can break a nation’s soul;



Does Earth seem like a hole?

It gets ****** objectively, free of sentiment or affection,

It gets pillaged, ripped and hurled. It fights back

Vulnerable and totally ordinary—rare for our kind.

Who gives a ****, Earth doesn’t have a gender,

It’s not going to tell anyone,

You had a lot to drink,

It was social influence:



It was the way of human kind,

******* for any kind of benefit,

Privilege, artificial sentiment

******* to keep going

Like everyone else

Maybe one day we’ll have a family until,

Until,

they too, will die.
Ray Aug 2014
It all starts with an Idea,
an idea like a distant thunderstorm
like cold rain on your skin
and then, let it seep in
and run wild through your blood
like a venereal disease
and let it enter into your brain
and let it grow in the darkness like moss.

And there you will find a Dream,
absurd and absolute,
a dream impossible to chase,
and so keep quiet.
Let it grow inside you
like a little parasite
until it is all that there is.

And then, let go.
Published: Efiction India
Cloey Olson Dec 2014
Take a spin with the devil
If I fall, you’re coming with me
Dance on the flames of torturous delight.
Shoved against the wall
pain hits my neck
my knees are shot
disappeared into an ash
Let’s burn together
Take a spin with the devil
If I fall, you’re coming with me
We’ll tumble and roll
Take hits back and forth
until we’re both panting
with faulty composure
It’s dicey
You shoved me to the floor
and I handed you the chains
My hands should work
but they’re twitching and clenching
We’re carnal, relentless, venereal, ******
Take a spin with the devil
If I fall, you’re coming with me
Lee May 2014
“I’m   sick    of     you


always
trying tobe a poeton
a balcny in the moorning
at


4
with-nough
whhiskey in your gut to **** a mule the size of a man twice yours”

Metal tastes the way beer does when your can is filling in the cut it opened in your mouth.
The same way words do with meaning.

“You don’t like
it?twhat’s         the matter?”
“It’s the word
mainly, listen to the sound,
ppuuuuudiinngg.
It sounds like the sop
from an unkempt venereal disease.”
“You ,
your fuckinwords.”

PlllaaassstiUc,
sounds like rain on a bucket with holes below the line you need it to be whole for, to work for collecting water
when you slap the bottle from my hand.

“Plastixs
cheeprthn
glash you devil
bitsh”

Off again into another night on may be the same bench till may be rain or rumble or a lack of water find me in the morning.
All Misspelling and spacing is deliberate. The title should let you know how to read it.
mark john junor Feb 2014
her bracelets sparkle in the rain
as she runs for the overhang
laughing she shouts her joys to the skies
as he holds her out to the falling waters
laughing with such delights
two young lovers pass me without seeing
too into seeing just eachother
too into the warmth of her hand in his
the three of us go onto the road
she leans over to me offering her smile like a band-aid
the world appears to hang round my jester neck
and its corporate sponsors all have prepared speeches
which they ****** at me with such desperately eager hands
the words they want me to say are verbal fists
for the beating of men
for the night to rationalize the dark things it dose
i call out that i'm a child of dawn
but a voice only bitter says softly they haven't got a choice
everyone else has gone away or
are mute to the venereal disease known to be spoken here
i weep for this terrible turn of events
till she comes to rescue me
with a king james in one hand
and an oxford standard in the other
never knew the girl had such fire in her
thouse sweet eyes will fool ya everytime
she is holding his hand but its my song she's singing
and id really like to know what that means
but the only clue just walked home
in a winter rain

— The End —